


Special

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Author's Recommendations [26]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Frank Castle is So Repressed, M/M, Sentimental, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-06-23 21:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19709779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Scars aren't special.(REVISED AND EXPANDED 13/12/2019)





	Special

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crocuta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crocuta/gifts).



> Requested on Tumblr! If you have a request you'd like to make for a short fic, visit me there. I'm 'Ifridiot'.
> 
> Originally written July 7, 2019. Revised and Expanded December 13, 2019.

Plenty of folks have left their mark on Frank's body.

The mark isn't special. It's a scar, like a dozen others on his body. No more or less painful than any of the rest. It's in a particularly difficult spot to reach on his own, which made it uniquely annoying to care for when it had still been healing, but many of his wounds had been in similar spots, and more would be in the future. 

Nelson's fingers linger there, slipped up under his shirt to press firm to the raised tissue. Nelson's fingers _always_ linger there, and Frank figures that's fair. As far as Frank's concerned, that particular mark is Nelson's.

In honesty, Frank doesn't remember the fight that lead to the wound. He doesn't remember the name or the look of the geek who left it, either. Hell, he doesn't even remember which group he'd been fighting at the time. The Irish? The Italians?

It doesn't matter. If he put in the effort, he could almost certainly manage some vague sort mental math to put together a time frame and all the milestones of where he'd been and who he'd been killing. There's no reason he can see to bother with that kind of effort, though, because the mark doesn't belong to whoever injured him. 

The mark belongs to Nelson.

Why bother straining to remember something ugly and painful and ultimately pointless, when Nelson kisses him like it's the only good thing left in the world?

Frank had been following Nelson for a while before dragging himself to his tidy little apartment for help. It was something he'd never bothered justifying to himself, the occasional check-in tail after all was said and done with Schoonover and the world thought Frank was dead, which turned into regularly looking out for the man after Red got a building dropped on him. 

It's not the sort of thing Frank figures needs explaining. He wasn't a clever man, and he had no interest in deep self-evaluation. He figured out who was under that stupid costume when Murdock finally showed up in court -- it was almost insulting to be expected not to, when Red didn't bother to hide the way he sounded, rising up righteous for the jury exactly the same way he tried when preaching half measures to Frank. 

Red meant something to Nelson, so maybe Nelson was a loose end in a bigger puzzle Frank was keeping tabs on; maybe he just liked that Nelson was man enough to admit being scared of dying while still sticking his neck out for Frank with that whole bullshit of a trial. Nelson was like Gunner that way, a man serving what he thought was right even when he could see how it might get him killed, and Frank liked that.

It didn't matter, in the end. The ways of how they got here didn't really matter, the same as the source of the scar Nelson can't seem to stop touching don't matter. Why should they? Understanding a thing didn't change it, really, all it did was make it complicated.

They didn't need this to be complicated.

Frank kept an eye on Nelson because he was brave enough to stick his neck out but dumb enough to think crime wasn't going to touch him outside a courtroom even after getting shot. There, there's a reason. He watched him because Red was gone and someone should have eyes on a guy like that, a good man too likely to get swallowed by a city like theirs.

So he knew where Nelson lived. All it was, really, was chance, that made Frank drag himself to Nelson; if he'd been a few blocks east or north, he'd have went somewhere else, and this wouldn't be an issue to worry about at all.

They weren't friends. Not then, maybe not even now. Back then, that first time he showed up at Nelson's door, Nelson was _scared_ of Frank. Frank didn't mind that. People were _supposed_ to be scared of him, even the people he didn't mean any harm.

But Nelson, the closest person he could think of when he was pumping blood out in a steady flood from a nasty gouge too high and too far back on his flank to comfortably clean on his own, much less suture, had been buddies with someone else who probably needed a lot of first aid. He was the most likely person nearby who would both know how to help and, failing that, at least offer gauze and a couple Tylenol. Nelson might turn him down or turn him out, showing up hours before dawn on a weekday, but he almost certainly wouldn't turn him _in._

Intuition that proved correct, as it often did. Frank wasn't a personable guy, but he had a knack for judging character. Nelson hadn't exactly been thrilled to see him, but he hadn't run to call the cops, either.

Really, Nelson reminded Frank too much of Lieberman, that first time. It had been a little unsteadying, honestly. He had the same way of going wide-eyed and thin-lipped, scared and pissed off at the same time, seeing Frank beat to shit and bleeding on his doorstep. And like Lieberman, he didn't turn him away, even if he looked like he was considering it. 

But where Lieberman had dithered that first time, squeamish and overthinking, Nelson had brought Frank directly into his kitchen and sat him down on a stool -- no fabric to stain, he pointed out grimly, and just why Frank could remember that, down to the tone of voice Nelson had used, but not the guy who'd managed to get a knife in him, he really couldn't say.

Nelson never asked questions he didn't want real, full and honest answers to. He knew that the more informed he was about what Frank had been doing, the more of a problem it became to help him -- he liked to remind Frank of that, little passive aggressive remarks as he smoothed a bandage in place or doused a cut in alcohol and listened to Frank hiss. Lieberman always had some smartass thing to say, little jibes and jokes while he tried to pick information out of Frank.

Lieberman tried to make Frank think, tried to bait Frank into promises of going easy, not putting himself at risk. It wasn't malice, it was concern, and Frank couldn't take it, the soft looks and the quiet pleading between Lieberman's words for Frank to to take a few less violent nights out. 

By contrast, Nelson never asked anything. He didn't that first night -- which was also by far the worst night, because while Nelson gamely stepped up to help, Frank had been incorrect in assuming that the man had any experience with first aid -- and he never started any other night, either. Nelson only asked useful, practical questions; what weapon left that wound, can you breathe like that, do you think that's broken or sprained? 

Honestly, Frank appreciated that almost as much as he appreciated the amateur medical assistance, which was evidently all the justification he needed to let it happen again. And a third time. An eighth, except somewhere in there he'd gotten down on his knees and sucked Nelson's dick as a thank you for setting a couple broken fingers, and suddenly that was just part of it. 

Blood and sex. They're not even out of their clothes yet and the room smells like blood and sex to Frank. It shouldn't be, but it's enough to get Frank hot and bothered. That thing Nelson is doing with his teeth on Frank's neck isn't helping.

Frank knew Nelson had quibbles about what he did, how he operated. Nelson evidently had quibbles about everything. And about most things, Nelson made his position perfectly clear and didn't often backtalk or contradict himself. He had a strong sense of right and wrong, and he stuck to his convictions, traits Frank found admirable. Nelson didn't like the idea of the law being taken into any one single person's hands, and he made his position on capital punishment abundantly clear.

And yet he never told Frank to stay away. Never asked him not to come back, or sent him away without help. He never tried to play moral coach, never told Frank he wouldn't be hurt if he weren't out there getting in trouble. He had clear reservations about what Frank did, and they bickered, occasionally, but Nelson also seemed to appreciated that Frank was just as blunt about his own opinions and just as stuck on his own convictions. 

Nelson had no idea how to stitch a wound, that first time. Frank's got a gnarly four-inch scar twisting over his side and crawling up the meat of his back to prove it. It was completely out of the lawyer's wheelhouse, that first morning, and he would have been perfectly within his rights to tell Frank to get lost, or tell him to never come back after doing what he could.

Instead, he'd stepped up to the plate, for no other reason that he'd felt it was the right thing to do. And in the time between the first visit and the second, he'd found the time to look up actual first aid tutorials, watching videos on the internet. Just that, Frank thinks, just that simple altruism, had done half the work in sucking Frank in, convincing him to keep making the necessary justifications to continuing to find his way back here. 

"I read this thing," Nelson says, kissing along the side of Frank's throat, under his jaw, his thumb worrying over that scar. "I can't remember what, but it was about taking care of scars, and it said that, uh, rubbing that vitamin goo from those, like, liquigel vitamin E pills could help keep them flexible."

It's a scar, like dozens of others on Frank's body. It's not special, doesn't hurt worse or make his heart beat faster when he touches it.

And yet Nelson's thumb sweeping over the snarl of scar tissue makes his dick throb, and the idea of Nelson reading some magazine or journal article and thinking of Frank, thinking of ways to help him, makes something sentimental and warm shift and tense in his chest.

“You wanna oil me up, hot shot?” Frank asks, smirking when Nelson slaps at his arm and kisses him again, mouth to mouth before telling him to shut up.

The weirdest thing is that Frank doesn’t mind the idea. He likes the way Nelson touches him, guiltless and boldly eager. Nelson isn’t greedy and he doesn’t judge and he’s willing to go for what he wants without shame. If things were a little different, Frank thinks Nelson would ask him to meet his friends, his parents; if things were a little different, Frank thinks Nelson would be happy to call this thing they’re doing a real relationship.

Not being able to do that, ever, in any way the future plays out, fills Frank with an inappropriate sense of regret. Nelson would make an excellent partner, and Frank refuses to feel guilty about how that’s never going to be what they are, because Nelson is an equal player in this. They’re both adults here, and if Nelson wanted to end this thing they ever talk about defining and will never be able to share with anyone else, he would. 

One day, sooner or later, Nelson will wise up to what he deserves and all the ways Frank can’t give those things to him. He’ll find someone good for him, and Frank will find some reason to justify disappearing from his life so Nelson can have the security and peace of mind a good man like him deserves. Nelson should be with someone who not only cares about keeping him safe but loves him proper, all the time and all the way, without the reservations and distance a man like Frank has to keep.

But right now, Nelson is pushing Frank toward the bedroom, and whether _Frank_ deserves this or not, he’s not stupid enough to duck out of an invitation like that.

Nelson kisses him like it means something, and his hand returns again and again to the long, raised scar snarled over Frank’s flank, feeling over it like it’s something special. 

It’s not. The _scar_ is not the special thing. 

The way Frank lights up every time Nelson’s skin meets his, that’s special. The way Nelson will tell him to his face that he’s an idiot, and still kiss him like anything between them can ever really matter, that’s special.

Nelson, caught in Frank’s gravitational pull and dancing ever closer, sweet as he tells Frank exactly what kind of laws he’s breaking just by putting a bandaid on the smallest of Frank’s wounds, is special.

There is a certain something, a warmth and fondness that has nothing to do with the burning pleasure scouring through him as Nelson holds him open and eats him out like it’s his favourite treat; this thing, golden and heavy, rare and bright -- that’s special.

A sense of something unspeakable, something unutterable by its sheer overwhelming goodness. It’s something like belonging, something like love, and it’s special in the truest sense of the word.

The _scar_ is not special. After all, dozens of men have put dozens of scars on Frank’s body. So it’s not the scar, never the scar, that’s special.


End file.
